Bound
by smilebot
Summary: For an anon in the AC kink meme !o! DesmondxShaun: Hooters. Isn't that enough trouble?
1. Chapter 1

"This is ridiculous."

Shaun miserably grumbled to himself as the younger man tugged them across the street in bold strides, his hand purposefully tightening around the other's in silent protest as they rounded the corner and began to unsuccessfully look for available restaurants—it was completely like the demanding dolt to drag them across every curb, never mind that it was actually _Shaun _who bitched about how each of the diners were weird or stinky or just plain dumb, and the agitated male was getting _quite _annoyed at Desmond's stomach obnoxiously growling. Truly, they were already late to Professor Vidic's European history class, damn it! Lord knew what the hell that creeper would do when they walked in, smelling of some disgusting grease and spilled drinks.

Just the thought made Shaun halt in his tracks.

"_Gods_, Desmond! We've already been traversing for a whole _hour_, looking for this nonexistent utopia of an eat-in of yours!" he hastily snapped, furrowing his brow even harder when said being looked more confused than argumentative. "Pick a place, _now_!"

A frown. "Hey, hey—calm it, would you? I'm just trying to pick a place you like too, Shaun."

Quickly, Shaun smothered the blush that threatened to betray his side of the story and scowled. "Well, it better be quick!"

"All right, all right. Look, why don't we just go one more block? If you don't like anything there, we can—"

Blink.

Desmond paused in the middle of his sentence and stared, forcing Shaun to grind his teeth in irritation, as he gripped the other man's hand even harder and began to take off down the road. "C'mon, Shaun! I think I found something."

"Wh-_What_? D-Don't—_where_ are we going?"


	2. Chapter 2

"_Desmond_."

Blinking at the way Shaun tightened his hold on his hand, Desmond traced the tips of the other's fingers in oblivious idleness, immune to the laser-beam of death directed at his head. He casually surveyed the orange and black furnishings of the restaurant and drummed his digits on the table, once more taking a quick swig of his beer, before he leaned his head on his hand, much to the historian's great annoyance.

"_Miles_."

A look. "What, Shaun? Don't cast a cloud over the town."

Hastings hated the tacky, contemporary furniture as much as he wanted to throw his shot-glass into the idiot's eyes. "_Me_? 'Cast a _cloud_'?"

"Who else?"

Hissing in disdain, he gestured towards the sorry excuse of a diner and continued, "Look around, you dolt—and see if you can fling that at me."

One sigh. "I don't understand why you hate this place—it was either this or let you break into Lucy's complex again, and I don't want to remember what happened _last_ time."

"How was I supposed to know she put her komodo dragon in the kitchen?" he ground out, chugging the rest of his beverage, as some bimbo song began to play overhead. "Anyway, don't change the subject—just _look_ at this place."

The pounding in his temple, the chill of the air conditioner, no more beer left, and Desmond turned his seat around and surveyed the area, straining his eyes against the dim, earthen-tinged lights that cast a warm glow over the whole—he absorbed the large leather seats and high booths, the hearty laughter of customers, the smell of burgers and fries.

And a growl from his stomach.

"Um … they have good business, considering that we've been sitting here for seven minutes straight?"

"Don't get snarky with me," said Shaun, rearranging his glasses while jabbing an accusatory finger at the source of outrage. "Not when there are a horde of _those_ walking around!"

Right after his exclamation, one of 'those' walked right past, displaying her confident swagger through the tightness of her miniskirt, tongue-in-cheek catcalls blending in with a steamy chick tune that sounded as bad as Rebecca's singing. Wordlessly, Shaun fought off a potent urge to burn the building while he watched Desmond comprehend their situation; girls, girls, _girls_—each waiter voluptuous enough to make Aphrodite jealous, their toned midriffs showing, complete with a diamond bellybutton piercing. They more than comfortably flirted with the consumers, male _and_ female, their vixen laughs causing their massive mounds to jiggle like a corny porno. One more sultry giggle, three more sights of them bending over in an inappropriate fashion, and Shaun plastered on a permanent scowl on his face, his contempt highlighted by the questioning expressions of the innocent bartenders that stood nearby.

"Those assets probably aren't even real."

He'd just have to find that out.

The hard way.


	3. Chapter 3

"_So_, what can I get you studs?"

If Shaun wasn't already mentally throwing up, he would've taken the menu and sliced off the annoying woman's cleavage, or at least tried to thrust said item into her heart and trample her remains under his feet. But, alas, he gritted his teeth and bore the outrage, besides the fact that the waitress' chest was thicker than an elephant's buttocks, because Shaun Hastings was a—_damn_—gentleman, and he didn't participate in acts of violence.

_Public_ violence, to be exact.

"Oh … uh … yeah …"

Ah, yes: Leave it up to Desmond the Confused to create logic.

A scratch at his head. "Food. _Right_."

Could this mess get _any_ worse?

Giggling, the bimbonette—all right, so that _wasn't_ a word: big deal—smacked her gum loudly and twirled her pen in an absentminded fashion, her black eyeliner making no sense with her long blonde locks. "Of course, hun'; you're not gonna spend the rest of the night sippin' on that Heineken, are you?"

"N-No: Obviously, _no_."

"_Then_?"

"_Then_, we were just about to leave," Shaun hastily put in, pushing up his glasses, as he grabbed his vest off of the counter. He blatantly ignored the extremely bemused expression on Desmond's face and tossed a twenty at the bartender while his feet slid back onto the floor and jabbed none too gently at the other's calf. Never mind the ugly, _oh-yes-my-name-must-be-Sarah-let-me-fuck-you_ wretch, who silently glared at him behind a pretense of a spray-on tan and retarded seduction. "Hurry up, Miles."

"What are you doing, Shaun? We just got here, and we didn't even eat yet."

"_Ditto_ … _Shaun_—that _is_ your name, right?"

Brain translation: I am a whore and I have big boobs I fucked everyone here damn proud of it my cup size rivals a sumo wrestler's ass I have STD's I don't know what a brain is what the hell is modesty and the Eiffel Tower—

"Shaun." Interruption. "_Shaun_."

He didn't know when the hell he sat back down, or when another round of drinks came upon them, but the magnificent Shaun Hastings, who was now internally composing a speech for his martyrdom, ended up staring into questioning eyes that roused an aspect he wished to crush. Yet, as he singed the assassin's face with his mega death-gaze, which was bushed off like a gnat, the mental power of acting upon his urges to maul were somehow suppressed by a tentative hand that lingered near his own—before he realized what was happening, it was too late.

Continuation, with a worried brow, "Are you okay?" Concernedly, Desmond brushed his fingers in a subconscious fashion under the taller male's hand, his dark orbs boring into the opposite pair that complimented the slight chewing of his bottom lip. "Look, Shaun: If you really don't like this place, we could …" Hesitation. "You know, get out of here."

A pause. "But … but I feel as if it's rude to just leave: And, I'm sorry, but I'm _really_ starved … Old Man Vidic's class lasts for three hours, too …"

"So, _please_, could we just … stay here?"

Shaun scowled.

Fifty thunderbolts would kill him before he'd get a chance to oppose.

Because there was that plea, that pout, that _look_: one that spoke in definite volumes of potential dismay if he even tilted slightly towards denial—and God damn it all, but there was no way in _hell_ he could refuse such a request when so much vehemence was put behind the consideration, the fact that Desmond lacing their fingers together not helping his argumentative side—the _rational_ side—appear sensible. The inquiry, heat of his palm, the feeling that the entirety of the people were watching his mouth for the final decision, those things that drove him wilder than the need to tell the skank to fuck off back into the last generation: How the hell was he to choose gratification over that idiot's whimpering?

"_Fine_." Bullocks, Miles was _defini_telyrubbing off on him. "But this better be quick."

Desmond nodded, unable to suppress the tiny quirk of his lips, especially at the corners, the specific way that would make Shaun hysterical. "Thanks, man."

" … just hurry up and order."

He blamed the flush of his cheeks on the dumb whore's cooing.


	4. Chapter 4

She was gone.

At least, for now.

Quietly, his mind going as hysterical as random Eskimos on Mars, Shaun twiddled his thumbs and planned his next possible assassination in standards that did not consist of cartoon gore, no doubt that the bimbonette was the ideal sacrifice to throw into a large volcano off of Honolulu. The sigh that had come after Desmond gave his order—"_a cheeseburger … wait, no: the other one I just said … or what about … Shaun? What should I_—"—was the best one he had ever experienced in his entire oppressed existence: Maybe, he crabbily thought, taking another deep swig of his disgusting American beer, that anger management class Lucy coerced him to go to were working out …

"What are you thinking about?"

_I am meticulously attempting to kill a horde of specific persons who contaminate this atrocious facility, thank you very much, so please do not interrupt my planning processes_. Actual rubbish that came out of his mouth: "Oh, I don't _know_, Desmond dearest. I was just thinking about how lovely you look at the moment—the makeup truly suits your caramel complexion."

A scoff. "Appreciate you too, asshole."

"Indubitably."

The other took a sip of his beverage before cracking his knuckles—the latter looked very appealing to the moody Brit. "No, _really_, Shaun: What's got you spacing out?"

"Spacing _out_?"

"Yeah: You're scaring the bartender over there—about to drill a hole in his head; take it easy."

Oh, the irony—actions _did_ speak louder than words, but it wasn't as if he could adapt to the former when a particular pair of Vans were poking at his Converse. "Maybe if your goddamn _happy meal_ came _eight_ minutes ago, I'd be finishing up the rest of my term paper."

" … you _do_ realize that you already completed your assignment?"

"_Shut it_," he ground out, hunching his shoulders as he subjected himself to a larger amount of so-called liquor. "I _could_ do further editing and revising."

"_Right_."

Ignoring Desmond rolling his eyes, Shaun drummed his fingers on the counter and gave an even deadlier glare to some bartender named Kadar, snorting when the employee meekly winced and shuffled over to hand him a Corona. The dire taste that hit his tongue was now a familiar buzz, and he found himself being more and more exasperated as time went on—never again was he coming to this joint, friend's request or no: The wait was enough time to get rid of constipation, forty damn _whores_ were _crushing_ the meals onto their assets, the alcohol was enough to make a kiddy pool have rainbows, and the furniture was fucking _distasteful_; he might have lived with Grandmother Hester, who saw a cow as a squirrel and a Viagra bottle as a vaginal douche, but he sure as hell knew what _class_ was.

And this Neanderthal cave was the opposite of _normal_.

"_Hey_, boys—here you go." Oh, _damn_—if it wasn't the next Tifa Lockhart again. "One gourmet _hot dog_." The tacky blonde licked her lips as she enunciated the last two words with her eyes hooded in mischief.

Blinking, Desmond pulled back the sleeves of his hoodie and gave his thanks, unaware of Shaunzilla shooting his mega laser-beams of doom at the meretricious female, his hands already reaching for the ketchup. He picked up the food item with careful hands and squirted the sauce onto it. "Thanks …"

"It's _Cindy_." A laugh. "_Cindy Burgess_."

Your damn _mother_, thought Shaun.

"Do you want it '_All the Way_'?" she saucily continued, making the agitated man want to rip out her black mascara-caked eyelashes.

The parkour nearly choked on his meal. "_What_?" Maybe he _did_ have the brain cells to comprehend that this turn of conversation was straying from the palatable.

Shaun's mind: _Oh hell damn what the fucking Saint Peter as you doing Desmond you idiot close your mouth you have ketchup on your lip did you learn any manners when you were young you nitwit_—

"'_All the Way_'—it's not too expensive, _Desmond_; I can give it to you _right now_, if you _want_ me to." Obviously, Ms. Bitch, here, was not talking about the actual upgrade to chili, cheese, relish, and onions, by _any_ means. Why the hell did they even have _menus_, in this godforsaken _hellhole_? "It won't take long." Deviance. "Unless, of course, you _finish_ _quickly_—"

"I want my bill," Shaun snapped. He found his hands automatically slamming the innocent beer bottle onto the counter with a menace that had that Kadar-guy intimidated enough to retreat into the kitchen—interruption was the new black. "And, _yes_, I'll pay for his little _hot dog_, too."

The other paused. "Hey, man: It's all good; I'm the one eating, anyway. I'll pay—"

"Shut up and finish eating—let Mr. Hastings take care of this."

Oh, damn _straight_ he was taking care of this.

Shaun Hastings vs. Chinchilla Burger.

It was _on_.


	5. Chapter 5

For the love of God, this was _why_ he didn't want to come back to America and suffer all her "nationalistic traditions"—drinking rotten beer, scoping women with assets that rivaled those of Barbie, swallowing grease, and whatever the hell Neanderthals did. It was here at this time, chugging his liquor, that he wondered why the hell a bill was taking so long to prepare, why the hell he was feeling so agitated at all of this raucous he experienced everyday in New York. His thoughts soon gravitated towards the extreme, and there was no helping it.

He should _never_ have transferred out of Oxford, _never_ have sold his penthouse in London, _never_ have applied for a long-term visa, _never_ have stepped out of the airport.

_Never_ have given into this idiot who looked at him with confusion at its alpha stage.

"Shaun? Hey?"

_Never._

"Shaun?"

"_What_?" he snapped, downing his fourth bottle. Just how _weak_ was their stash? He was pretty sure a squirrel could finish off two and still hype around. "What do you want?"

"You okay, man?"

"_Okay?_"

"Yeah." Desmond rubbed at his chin, what Shaun noticed to be a habit he brought around in times of awkwardness, and sighed, his fingers toying with a french-fry. He took a sip of his Coke before he gestured over to poor Kadar, who seemed to want to blend into the counter. "Like I said: I'm sorry about all this. I'm eating really quickly, so—"

"It's fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"Miles, I _said_ that I'm _fine_. I just want the bill to be here."

" … Alright. But—"

Shaun quirked an eyebrow when his shirt was tugged, turning around to address whatever nonsensical problem there was with his current life. No sooner did he gesture for Kadar to hand him another beer was something hot pressed against his lips, something salty and familiar, and before he knew it, his mouth strayed and took it without his mind's consent. He shook his head and rest his gaze on the other as he got ready to admonish the hell out of him—whatever he put into his mouth, he nearly forgot due to his exasperation. However, just as he was about to make his sarcasm be the first stone cast, he stopped in his plans and readjusted his frames, his set beer left unopened.

It was a French fry, he found, chewing on it slowly as he watched the other look at him strangely, like he was concentrating very on something to be concentrated because he could not concentrate on that particular subject before. He distracted himself with the oh-so-intelligent discovery of greasy potatoes and sodium chloride on his tongue in order to not address the gaze that fixated on him. This was awkward, and though Desmond Miles personified awkwardness, Shaun Hastings was not supposed to be in the limelight of the making of this weird lacuna. He expected the latter to go back to eating after the rude shoving of junk against his lips—after all, the idiot had an attention span of a horsefly deciding upon whether it wished to devour horse manure or kitty vomit, and he had been bitching about his black hole of a stomach for ages. To suddenly have his—unwanted, mind you; _unwanted_—attention for more than forty-seven seconds was terribly uncomfortable.

_Very_ terribly uncomfortable.

"_What_? Do I have something _horrendous_ on my face?" his voice challenged, the need to break this moment overruling the tiny bit of poise he had. "Like a zit? Or maybe I have a horn growing out of my eye?"

"Shaun—"

"Well, whatever it is that is making you pucker up like a virgin, I don't really care for it. Simply, hurry up." His voice then dropped to a dead whisper. "You know we have a contract tonight. We need to get ready quickly."

The mention of the new assassination mission seemed to bring Desmond back from La La Land, judging by the way he shook his head and took another bite out of his hot dog. This primate may be the clumsiest, graceless, and most ill at ease moron in the universe, but he was a flawless assassin who was one of the highest ranked in the Brotherhood. And surprisingly, an ace when it comes to chemistry and physics. God, Shaun thought as he tasted the remnants of the fry, today was just one big mess.

"I am about to ring up the damn _manager_ if the bill doesn't come in one minute and thirty-nine seconds," he huffed, grimacing at the cheap taste of beer. It seemed as if that Kadar-guy transferred his pansy ways into the alcohol, because this shit was worse than the Kit Kat Bars at the Ninety-Nine Cents Store. "This is just ridiculous—"

And then, it was back again—that eerie look that dominated Desmond's face, made his eyes widen and lock onto him like he was Jesus, or something. He was taken aback at the abrupt change in demeanor, and it made him uneasy when the other's hand latched onto his wrist with strength he took for granted. It was now, bringing his body back as Desmond moved closer, that he was starting to wonder if he really did qualify for a freak-show, or if he caused an idiotic revelation; his mind had dropped the acknowledgement of the annoying buzz of the restaurant, and he didn't even register the monochrome lighting, as he blinked heavily in wary expectancy. Something didn't feel right.

Or maybe his head didn't feel right. He knit his brow when the latter's thumb brushed against his lip, and it didn't take a dolt to know that the touch was prolonged when it neared the tip of his tongue. Probably it was now that his "classy gentlemen" instincts kicked in and warned him that this was a dangerous scene—_dangerous_, which meant that everyone could see this cursed moment: see how his eyes widened behind his lenses, the Vans that lightly slid over his Converse, the heat that forced him to breathe deeply, the sudden nearness of both of them. He tried to pull out of that hold, but found that he couldn't, and all he could do was sit still as that thumb played over his mouth, ran over it in a way that could only be tagged as obsessive.

"Desmond—"

"You had some salt on your lip," the assassin stated, though his tone was laced with a guttural note that prevented it from being normal. "Some salt … _Shit_."

"What are you—"

"I'm not stupid, Shaun." A breath. "I see the way you wrap your lips around that beer bottle. I see that clearly, the whole fucking _time_."

_What_ the he didn't even—

"You left that salt there on purpose?" There was that laugh again. "Yeah, you probably did. You always had those damn D.S.L's, anyway."

What.

The.

_Fuck_?

The restaurant then seemed much too quiet, much too hushed, as it everyone was watching this Twilight Zone cinema with all the zeal they could muster. Shaun could find no words to throw at that hooded gaze and wicked voice, the thumb that swept one last time over his lips before it made its way to its owner's tongue; he couldn't shake himself, nor could he rebuke this entire diner for this closed moment under the microscope. It was truly a moment where the scaled tipped completely in favor of raw confusion and mortification over that inner conscience that strummed its lyre as fast as it could for some much needed attention.

Was the apocalypse over now?

"I already paid the bill."

No, it was just beginning.

"So lick those pretty lips of yours."


End file.
